More William (14 page)

He imagined the scene of his return. He would be nobly forgiving. He would accept the gift of the new bugle without a word of reproach. His heart thrilled at the thought of it.

He was getting jolly hungry. It must be after lunchtime. But it would spoil it all to go home too early.

Here he caught sight of a minute figure regarding him with a steady gaze and holding a paper bag in one hand.

William stared down at him.

‘Wot you dressed up like that for?’ said the apparition, with a touch of scorn in his voice.

William looked down at his sacred uniform and scowled. ‘I’m a scout,’ he said loftily.

‘’Cout?’ repeated the apparition, with an air of polite boredom. ‘Wot’s your name?’

‘William.’

‘Mine’s Thomas. Will you catch me a wopse? Look at my wopses!’

He opened the bag slightly and William caught sight of a crowd of wasps buzzing about inside the bag.

‘Want more,’ demanded the infant. ‘Want lots more. Look. Snells!’

He brought out a handful of snails from a miniature pocket, and put them on the ground.

‘Watch ’em put their horns out! Watch ’em walk. Look!
They
’
re walkin
’. They’re
walkin
’.’

His voice was a scream of ecstasy. He took them up and returned them to their pocket. From another he drew out a wriggling mass.

‘Woodlice!’ he explained, casually. ‘Got worms in ’nother pocket.’

He returned the woodlice to his pocket except one, which he held between a finger and thumb laid thought-fully against his lip. ‘Want wopses now. You get ’em for me.’

William roused himself from his bewilderment.

‘How – how do you catch ’em?’ he said.

‘Wings,’ replied Thomas. ‘Get hold of their wings an’ they don’t sting. Sometimes they do, though,’ he added casually. ‘Then your hands go
big.’

A wasp settled near him, and very neatly the young naturalist picked him up and put him in his paper prison.

‘Now you get one,’ he ordered William.

William determined not to be outshone by this minute but dauntless stranger. As a wasp obligingly settled on a flower near him, he put out his hand, only to withdraw it with a yell of pain and
apply it to his mouth.

‘Oo – ou!’ he said. ‘Crumbs!’

Thomas emitted a peal of laughter.

‘You stung?’ he said. ‘Did it sting you?
Funny!
’

William’s expression of rage and pain was exquisite to him.

‘Come on, boy!’ he ordered at last. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

William’s bewildered dignity made a last stand.

‘
You
can go,’ he said. ‘I’m playin’ by myself.’

‘All right!’ agreed Thomas. ‘You play by you’self an’ me play by myself, an’ we’ll be together – playin’ by ourselves.’

He set off down a path, and meekly William followed.

It must be jolly late – almost teatime.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Thomas suddenly. ‘Give me some brekfust.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ said William irritably.

‘Well, find some,’ persisted the infant.

‘I can’t. There isn’t any to find.’

‘Well, buy some!’

‘I haven’t any money.’

‘Well, buy some money.’

Goaded, William turned on him.

‘Go away!’ he bellowed.

Thomas’s blue eyes, beneath a mop of curls, met his coldly.

‘Don’t talk so loud,’ he said sternly. ‘There’s some blackberries there. You can get me some blackberries.’

William began to walk away, but Thomas trotted by his side.

‘There!’ he persisted. ‘Jus where I’m pointing. Lovely great big suge ones. Get ’em for my brekfust.’

Reluctantly the scout turned to perform his deed of kindness.

Thomas consumed blackberries faster than William could gather them.

‘Up there,’ he commanded. ‘No, the one right up there I want. I want it
kick.
I’ve etten all the others.’

William was scratched and breathless, and his shirt was torn when at last the rapacious Thomas was satisfied. Then he partook of a little refreshment himself, while Thomas turned out his
pockets.

‘I’ll let ’em go now,’ he said.

One of his woodlice, however, stayed motionless where he put it.

‘Wot’s the matter with it?’ said William, curiously.

‘I ’speck me’s the matter wif it,’ said Thomas succinctly. ‘Now, get me some lickle fishes, an’ tadpoles an’ water sings,’ he went on
cheerfully.

William turned round from his blackberry bush.

‘Well, I won’t,’ he said decidedly. ‘I’ve had enough!’

‘You’ve had ’nuff brekfust,’ said Thomas sternly. ‘I’ve found a lickle tin for the sings, so be
kick.
Oo, here’s a fly! A green fly! It’s
sittin’ on my finger. Does it like me ’cause it’s sittin’ on my finger?’

‘No,’ said William, turning a purple-stained countenance round scornfully.

It must be nearly night. He didn’t want to be too hard on them, to make his mother ill or anything. He wanted to be as kind as possible. He’d forgive them at once when he got home.
He’d ask for one or two things he wanted, as well as the new bugle. A new penknife, and an engine with a real boiler.

‘Waffor does it not like me?’ persisted Thomas.

William was silent. Question and questioner were beneath contempt.

‘Waffor does it not like me?’ he shouted stridently.

‘Flies don’t like people, silly.’

‘Waffor not?’ retorted Thomas.

‘They don’t know anything about them.’

‘Well, I’ll
tell
it about me. My name’s Thomas,’ he said to the fly politely. ‘Now does it like me?’

William groaned. But the fly had now vanished, and Thomas once more grew impatient.

‘Come
on
!’ he said. ‘Come on an’ find sings for me.’

William’s manly spirit was by this time so far broken that he followed his new acquaintance to a neighbouring pond, growling threateningly but impotently.

‘Now,’ commanded his small tyrant, ‘take off your boots an’ stockings an’ go an’ find things for me.’

‘Take off yours,’ growled William, ‘an’ find things for yourself.’

‘No,’ said Thomas, ‘crockerdiles might be there an’ bite my toes. An pittanopotamuses might be there. If you don’t go in, I’ll scream an’ scream
an’
scream
!’

William went in.

He walked gingerly about the muddy pond. Thomas watched him critically from the bank.

‘I don’t like your
hair
,’ he said confidingly.

William growled.

He caught various small swimming objects in the tin, and brought them to the bank for inspection.

‘I want more’n that,’ said Thomas calmly.

‘Well, you won’t
get
it,’ retorted William.

He began to put on his boots and stockings, wondering desperately how to rid himself of his unwanted companion. But Fate solved the problem. With a loud cry a woman came running down the
path.

‘Tommy,’ she said. ‘My little darling Tommy. I thought you were lost!’ She turned furiously to William. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ she said.
‘A great boy of your age leading a little child like this into mischief! If his father was here, he’d show you. You ought to know better! And you a scout.’

William gasped.

‘Well!’ he said. ‘An’ I’ve bin doin’ deeds of kindness on him all morning. I’ve—’

She turned away indignantly, holding Thomas’s hand.

‘You’re never to go with that nasty rough boy again, darling,’ she said.

‘Got lots of wopses an’ some fishes,’ murmured Thomas contentedly.

They disappeared down the path. With a feeling of depression and disillusionment William turned to go home.

SHE TURNED FURIOUSLY TO WILLIAM. ‘YOU OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF,’ SHE SAID.

Then his spirits rose. After all, he’d got rid of Thomas, and he was going home to a contrite family. It must be about supper time. It would be getting dark soon. But it still stayed light
a long time now. It wouldn’t matter if he just got in for supper. It would have given them time to think things over. He could see his father speaking unsteadily, and holding out his
hand.

‘My boy . . . let bygones be bygones . . . if there is anything you want . . .’

His father had never said anything of this sort to him yet, but, by a violent stretch of imagination, he could just conceive it.

His mother, of course, would cry over him, and so would Ethel.

‘Dear William . . . do forgive us . . . we have been so miserable since you went away . . . we will never treat you so again.’

This again was unlike the Ethel he knew, but sorrow has a refining effect on all characters.

He entered the gate self-consciously. Ethel was at the front door. She looked at his torn shirt and mud-caked knees.

‘You’d better hurry if you’re going to be ready for lunch,’ she said coldly.

‘Lunch?’ faltered William. ‘What time is it?’

‘Ten to one. Father’s in, so I warn you,’ she added unpleasantly.

He entered the house in a dazed fashion. His mother was in the hall.

‘
William!
’ she said impatiently. ‘Another shirt torn! You really are careless. You’ll have to stop being a scout if that’s the way you treat your clothes.
And
look
at your knees!’

Pale and speechless, he went towards the stairs. His father was coming out of the library smoking a pipe. He looked at his son grimly.

‘If you aren’t downstairs
cleaned
by the time the lunch bell goes, my son,’ he said, ‘you won’t see that bugle of yours this side of Christmas.’

William swallowed.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said meekly.

He went slowly upstairs to the bathroom.

Life was a rotten show.

CHAPTER 10

T
he excitement began at breakfast. William descended slightly late, and, after receiving his parents’ reproaches with an air of weary
boredom, ate his porridge listlessly. He had come to the conclusion that morning that there was a certain monotonous sameness about life. One got up, and had one’s breakfast, and went to
school, and had one’s dinner, and went to school, and had one’s tea, and played, and had one’s supper, and went to bed. Even the fact that today was a half-term holiday did not
dispel his depression.
One
day’s holiday! What good was
one
day? We all have experienced such feelings.

Half-abstractedly he began to listen to his elders’ conversation.

‘They promised to be here by
nine
,’ his mother was saying. ‘I do hope they won’t be late!’

‘Well, it’s not much good their coming if the other house isn’t ready, is it?’ said William’s grown-up sister Ethel. ‘I don’t believe they’ve even
finished
painting
!’

‘I’m so sorry it’s William’s half-term holiday,’ sighed Mrs Brown. ‘He’ll be frightfully in the way.’

‘They comin’ removin’ this
morning
?’ he inquired cheerfully.

‘Yes, DO try not to hinder them, William.’

‘
Me?
’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m goin’ to
help
!’

‘If William’s going to help,’ remarked his father, ‘thank heaven I shan’t be here. Your assistance, William, always seems to be even more devastating in its results
than your opposition!’

William smiled politely. Sarcasm was always wasted on William.

‘Well,’ he said, rising from the table, ‘I’d better go an’ be gettin’ ready to help.’

Ten minutes later Mrs Brown, coming out of the kitchen from her interview with the cook, found to her amazement that the steps of the front door were covered with small ornaments. As she stood
staring William appeared from the drawing-room staggering under the weight of a priceless little statuette that had been the property of Mr Brown’s great-grandfather.

‘WILLIAM!’ she gasped.

‘I’m gettin’ all the little things read for ’em jus’ to carry straight down. If I put everything on the steps they don’t need come into the house at all. You
said
you didn’t want ’em trampin’ in dirty boots!’

It took a quarter of an hour to replace them. Over the fragments of a blue Delft bowl Mrs Brown sighed deeply.

‘I wish you’d broken
anything
but this, William.’

‘Well,’ he excused himself, ‘you said things
do
get broken removin’. You said so
yourself
! I didn’t break it on purpose. It jus’ got broken
removin’.’

At this point the removers arrived.

There were three of them. One was very fat and jovial, and one was thin and harassed-looking, and a third wore a sheepish smile and walked with a slightly unsteady gait. They made profuse
apologies for their lateness.

‘You’d better begin with the dining-room,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Will you pack the china first? William, get out of the
way
!’

She left them packing, assisted by William. William carried the things to them from the sideboard cupboards.

‘What’s your names?’ he asked, as he stumbled over a glass bowl that he had inadvertently left on the hearthrug. His progress was further delayed while he conscientiously
picked up the fragments. ‘Things
do
get broken removin’,’ he removed.

‘Mine is Mister Blake and ’is is Mister Johnson, and ’is is Mister Jones.’